Chiaroscuro
by helium lost
Summary: [AU] December, 1939: In Germany, there was war. But in Florence, Italy, all was quiet. An unsuccessful artist and a young art history major: Their paths converge, and in each other they find the light in the rapidly deepening darkness. Zutara.
1. Impressionistic First Impressions

**Chiaroscuro**  
helium lost .

**Author's Notes:** I was going to do a modern AU, but this thought suddenly came to mind. I honestly think that this fandom should have more weird AUs—and modern, high-school setting fics don't count. (College fics, however, do. Or, they will, once they're written.)

Anyway, I don't strive to have my historical details one hundred percent correct. If there are glaring errors, by all means, point them out to me. But little details like what color Mussolini likes to wear are, frankly, a bit irrelevant, no? Also, the way they speak is modern, because I wouldn't be able to stand making them talk in an older form of English.

**Full Summary:** (AU) December, 1939: In Germany, there was war. But in Florence, Italy, all was quiet. An unsuccessful artist attempting to carve a path through life was immersed in this quiet, and so was a young university student struggling to find her place in the world. December, 1939: Their paths converge, and in each other they find the light in the rapidly deepening darkness. Zutara.

**Challenge:** Livejournal's 30-dates community.  
**Prompt:** #01. First Date

* * *

**CHAPTER I**  
_Impressionistic First Impressions_

* * *

In Germany, there was war: Immaculately dressed armies marching in rank and file, the brass buttons on their uniforms glittering in the sun as their arms and legs moved together in perfect clockwork unison. These ceaseless lines of power invaded Poland, and Poland had fallen. And in Germany, there was quiet: the quiet of millions of people holding their breaths, waiting for the next dangerous move. 

But in Florence, Italy, locked into a box of four walls plastered over with cheap, flimsy paper, there waged another war, one where the only casualties were the white canvas boards and the exhausted paint tubes littering the ground like fallen soldiers. Palette knifes glinted in the candlelight before they came slashing through the air, cutting a brilliant line across the pale, uneven surface of the canvas, a cut that bled paint most intense.

_(In Poland, the echoes of bombs whistling through the air could still be heard; in Poland, the crackling, burning fire could still be heard whispering around the black ruins of all that was left. In Poland, all that hung in the air was the bitter taste of fear, the black thing that lurked in every corner, the black thing that fed the hearts of millions as they waited with bated breath.)_

The early morning sun found Zuko hard at work in his room, dabbing bits of paint here and there before stepping back to admire and criticize his work. With a flick of his wrist, he brought life to a woman's eyes; with one long stroke, he built a bridge out of nothingness; with a single, almost careless dab, he created the moon. Whole cities rose and fell at his hands. The early morning light cast his face into a harsh, chiseled relief, one that highlighted all of his features: his jawline was strong, his eyes narrow, his nose somewhat sharp but still soft around the edges. His hair was short and scruffy, roughly cut just to keep it out of his eyes, with no particular attention paid to style nor the way it complemented his face. And across one eye, almost like a stain, was a large, blossom-shaped scar, remnants of a fire from long ago.

Drifting up from downstairs was the sound of metal clanging and echoing through the hallway, interspersed with the sound of a rough, husky old voice singing. The song carried a simple melody, one that rose and fell in soft crests; it pervaded the room, rising above the sounds of the city waking up outside. Zuko could hear the sound of a teapot whistling and the sound of things frying in a pan. He stepped back one more time to look at his work, then set down the brush and the palette on the table beside the easel and sighed. There was an almost careless pile of other works that he had already painted stacked on the ground beside the easel. Whether that would be enough to attract any attention or get any customers, he wasn't sure… He sat on the stool before the easel and buried his face in his hands. He had been doing this for maybe two, four years already, and yet… He rubbed his unscarred eye and stood. Well, he just hoped that it didn't rain today, and that maybe one or two people would at least stop to look at his work.

He left his newest painting on the easel to dry and left his room. He descended the stairs (which creaked under him) and entered the kitchen, where he found his uncle busy making breakfast by the light that was beginning to surge in more strongly from the window beside the stove. His uncle stopped singing and turned, smiling.

"Ah, Zuko! Sit, sit. Breakfast will be ready in a couple minutes." With one hand, he stirred the congee boiling in a small pot; with the other, he flipped the eggs frying in a pan. He began singing anew as the toast popped up from the toaster; in one swift movement, he took the slices of toast and placed them on the plate that was already waiting, then slid the fried eggs on top of the toast. He set the pan, still greasy with oil, back onto the stove, and then tasted a spoonful of the congee. Satisfied, he poured the congee into a bowl and set the pot back onto the stove, which he turned off. He then put a dash of salt and pepper over the eggs before carrying both the plate and the bowl back to the dining room table. He went back to the kitchen and took the tea off the stove, pulling out from a drawer a coaster upon which he placed the burning hot pot. He went back to the kitchen one more time and took a jar of pickled olives.

After everything had been put in its place on the table, Iroh sat down and sighed, smiling. Zuko, with his elbow on the table and chin propped up on his hand, sighed. Iroh, who had just opened with a _pop_ the jar of pickled olives, glanced at Zuko.

"What's wrong, Nephew?" he said before fishing out a couple olives with a pair of chopsticks, letting them plop into the congee. Zuko shook his head.

"It's nothing," he said in a gruff voice, then placed the eggs between the two slices of toast and picked up the entire thing, taking a small bite out of it. He chewed as he gazed out the window at the traffic that was already beginning to trickle into the streets. Iroh slurped his congee and munched on the pickled olives. A slight frown came to his face.

"Ahh, what I wouldn't give right now for some Sichuan _zha cai_…" he murmured, then popped an olive into his mouth. "Although these Italian olives aren't _too_ bad, come to think of it."

Zuko remained silent, taking another bite of his breakfast. It didn't look like it would rain today—the sky was clear—and his prospects didn't look too bad. It was Saturday; Christmas was just around the corner; he wouldn't be very far from the Ponte Vecchio, where people would be milling about to find their loved ones jewelry for the holiday; and his latest pieces were much better than his previous ones. Iroh poured Zuko a cup of tea, then poured himself a cup, which he raised to his lips and sipped after blowing on it a little to cool it off. Zuko's steaming tea cup remained untouched beside him as he finished off his sandwich. He carried the plate dotted with crumbs over to the sink and placed it into the basin, then went back upstairs to check on his paintings.

The one he had just finished looked dry—there was a small area of purple that still looked somewhat wet, though. He laid out his portfolio and carefully put inside it the paintings on paper that were lying on the ground beside the easel, then took another bag and put in the dried canvases. Once he was through, he checked again the painting on the easel, then sighed—it was dry enough; there wasn't any risk of it getting severely damaged from a brief trip in a bag. He placed some of his painting supplies in a small box and put a few extra sheets of paper into his portfolio. He slid the box into the bag with the canvases, careful not to tear anything. He collapsed his easel and put it into his portfolio, then placed a small stool into the bag. With his portfolio in one hand and the bag in another, he descended the steps once again. Iroh was still in the kitchen; his bowl of congee was completely empty and he continued to sip his tea, gazing placidly out the window.

"Going already, nephew?" Iroh said, and Zuko nodded. "Here, let me get the door for you."

"No, it's all right—I can handle it." He set down his portfolio and opened the door, then picked up his portfolio again and left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He stepped out into the cool morning air, then strode down the uneven, winding streets. The pockmarked fronts of apartment buildings rose up on both sides; the sunlight slanted into the street over the tops of the buildings, creating a triangle of darkness and a triangle of light. He looked to both sides when he came to the intersection, then crossed the street. He came to the covered path, lined with arches, across the street from the path that bordered the Arno River, and stopped. He set down his portfolio and bag and pulled his coat tighter around himself.

Within minutes, his 'stand' was set up: his artwork spread out on the cobblestones, the easel set up with a fresh sheet of paper on it, the stool set a small distance away from the easel, his box of art supplies lying open and waiting. He set a sheet of paper on his easel and paused to think, imagining a picture in his mind. He had already painted the Ponte Vecchio many times before; he was, frankly, starting to get tired of it. He glanced at the street and caught the sight of a few automobiles beginning to amble down the street. A spark of inspiration set off in his mind, and, within moments, the composition for a new painting almost seemed to draw itself out in his mind. He took out a pencil and began to lay down some basic lines and shapes, hurriedly scribbling them as they laid themselves out in his mind.

In moments, he had the base for his painting; he placed the pencil back into the box and took out a palette and a few brushes. He squeezed some paint from the tubes into the palette, set the brushes down on the easel's ledge, and pulled out a palette knife with which he began laying down basic colors. In about ten minutes, he had the basic form of his painting; he lay down the palette knife and began touching up the painting, adding in details and more colors.

The light of the morning sun began to strengthen as it bathed the city in its warmth and glow, bringing it to life. The Arno River carried slivers of light on its water, slivers like flakes of gold that drifted down on its clear waters. The morning was chilly but not intolerable; his thinning, threadbare coat was still enough to keep him warm. His breath came up in little white puffs before him as he leaned in closer to his painting and added smaller, more intricate details, dabbing his brush in his palette (covered in colors that were rapidly beginning to melt into each other) and almost carelessly smearing dabs of color onto the paper.

"Wow, these are beautiful!"

He looked up from his painting at the person whose voice he heard. He saw a dark-skinned girl probably around eighteen years old with her long, brown hair in a braid that trailed down to her waist. At the moment, it hung over her shoulder—almost flowed over her shoulder. A couple strands of hair came down from her forehead and attached to the bun on the back of her head, framing her face. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked at the paintings spread out on the ground, her mouth half-open in wonder.

"May I touch them?" she asked, and Zuko nodded, setting down his brush. The girl picked up one of the paintings and gazed at it, admiring its every little detail—detail that somehow managed to sneak itself in, despite the fact that most of the painting was mostly comprised of rapid, loose brush strokes. "Wow… these are amazing. They almost remind me of Guillaumin. Or perhaps Caillebotte. You've heard of them, right?"

Zuko furrowed his brow, puzzled. "No. I just… paint however I feel like painting," he said. He was amazed that she could even pronounce such names. She, meanwhile, raised her eyebrows.

"You have such an Impressionistic style, and you don't know them?" she said, looking up from the painting. He returned her question with a blank expression. She shrugged. "Well, maybe it's just me—I'm studying Art History, so sometimes I forget that people aren't as, well, I don't mean anything by it, but not as knowledgeable as I am."

"Oh," he said after a pause. She set down the painting that she was looking at and picked up another, this time of the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. She lightly ran a finger over its surface, marveling at its uneven, almost sculptural texture.

"I really like this one," she breathed. "It's almost as if—as if the sky were on fire. The colors you chose are brilliant. And the contrast—wow." She lowered the painting, then looked at him. "How much?"

"One hundred lire each," he said, and she winced and bit her lip. She carefully set down the painting and took out her wallet. She opened the folds and sighed, her face dropping.

"I only have twenty-five lire…" she said, then closed her wallet mournfully. "And I would _so_ love to have that painting… My favorites are the Impressionists, you know. Not so much this Abstract Impressionism that I'm hearing about—more of the traditional Impressionists. Monet, Cézanne, Marinot…" She frowned and made to put her wallet back into her pocket, but Zuko stood, reached over, and stopped her hand. She looked up at his face, astonished.

"Twenty-five lire it is, then," he said, and she gasped.

"Really? No… that's only a quarter of your price! I can't…" She bit her lip as he held up the painting.

"Do you want it or not?" he said softly. She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wandering over the painting, taking in mountains and valleys of the paint, the brilliant red that seemed to shine from the sky, the dark line of the bridge against the clouds… She lowered her hand from her mouth and touched the edges of the paper, savoring the rough feel of the paint as her eyes continued to take in the picture before her. Still biting her lip, she furrowed her brow and frowned, then, in one sudden movement, she whipped out her wallet again and pulled out the twenty-five lire bill.

"I'll take it," she said breathlessly. Expressionless, he took the note from her and handed her the painting, which she (very carefully) hugged. "Although I still don't know why you're letting me—"

"Don't get any fancy ideas," he said, sitting back down on his stool and putting the twenty-five lire note in his almost bare wallet. "I'm short on money and have too many paintings. Plus, I figured that that was the only way to get you to shut up about your beloved Impressionists." A rare smirk sneaked onto his face as her mouth dropped, an indignant look on her face.

"I—" she began, then stopped as her face softened into a smile. "Well, I'll have to thank you, at the least. This painting will look lovely framed up in my dorm room. All right, it won't really match the blues and whites in the room, but, then again, that'll just make it stand out more." She looked at the painting again and her smile widened. "Every time I look at this painting, I see something new…" She glanced down at his signature and frowned. "I'm sorry, I can't read your signature—what's your name?"

"Zuko Kuang," he said as he picked up his brush again.

"Ahh. Well, I'm Katara Bulanadi. It's very nice to meet you." She shifted the painting to beneath one arm and held out a hand for him to shake. He glanced at it, then sighed and set down his brush, then shook her hand.

"My pleasure," he muttered, and she grinned.

"Well, I hope you have more customers soon," she said. "Your paintings truly are beautiful. But I have to go now."

He nodded, and she walked off, blending into the crowd. He picked up his brush again and attempted to add more details and strokes to his painting, but he found that he couldn't concentrate, and that his hand was itching to draw something else. He frowned, then took out a piece of scratch paper and a pencil from his supply box. In a few rapid strokes, he began drawing what was in his mind: the long braid, the sparkling eyes, the gentle smile… but halfway through the sketch, the impression of her face had already begun to fade.

* * *

_tbc_

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**Trivia:**  
• The title is an art term that is used to refer to a style where there is a sharp contrast between light and dark. Caravaggio's work is said to be in this style.  
• Zuko's last name, Kuang, was taken from what was, according to Wikipedia, the surname that was decreed by the Emperor.  
• Katara's last name, Bulanadi, is a traditional Filipino last name meaning "sister moon".  
• Sichuan _zha cai_ is, essentially, a type of pickled vegetable. It's often eaten with congee, also known as jook (which is what Iroh calls it in the show). 

As always, leave me feedback:) I was aiming to have this chapter be at least 5,000 words long, but I think it ends pretty nicely at this length, so I'm not going to try to force it to be longer. Anyway, this is my first time trying out Zutara, so I'd love to hear what you think of their interactions.


	2. Too Little, Too Latte

**Chiaroscuro**  
. helium lost .

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is much shorter than I'd like it to be, but… eh… I'm not going to try to lengthen it, since that's going to make it a repeat of last chapter's ramblings XD But yeah, this chapter has virtually nothing in it with regards to action and advancing the plot… take it as a "short 'n sweet" deal before the darker parts come rolling in.

**Challenge:** 30-dates  
**Prompt:** #02. Café

* * *

**CHAPTER II**  
_Too Little, Too Latte_

* * *

A week later, Zuko was still in the same place, his paintings still spread out the same way, and his easel still set up in the same manner. Today, however, his easel was empty and his box of art supplies closed; he rubbed his hands against each other and blew into them, trying to warm them up. He could barely feel his fingers; there was no way that he would be able to fully control a brush the way he wanted to with his hands like this. 

He traced a pattern on the tiled floor with his foot and frowned—he wished he'd brought something with him to read, at least; somehow, it had slipped his mind when he left home that morning… and he couldn't go and buy a newspaper, either (not that he really wanted to), unless he packed up his entire stand and took it with him, which he wasn't willing to do.

A chilly breeze blew from the paper-white sky, running a frigid hand across his cheek as he winced. It managed to work its way under some of his paintings and blew them up; he quickly stopped them, pressing them back down to the ground, then crossed his arms and put his hands in his armpits in an attempt to warm them. He hadn't expected it to be _this_ cold—he'd expected it to be _cold_, yes, but he'd expected to be able to wear his coat as always and remain warm.

He sat back down on his stool and stared blankly at his paintings, continuing to shiver as his breath rose before him in little white puffs.

"Are you cold?"

Zuko looked up disdainfully at whoever had the audacity to ask such a question. He narrowed his eyes and pulled his coat even tighter around himself as the breeze strengthened, making him shiver even harder.

"You again," he said simply, looking at the girl before him with her braid draped once again over her shoulder, then added, saying the words between his clenched teeth, "No, I'm very warm." He stepped lightly on one of his paintings as the breeze continued to blow.

She laughed. "Yeah, stupid question, huh…" She smiled sheepishly.

"Mmm. What do you want?" he asked, then stepped down on another painting. She grinned and held out in a gloved hand a paper cup printed with a light, elegant pattern. He looked at it suspiciously, noticing how tendrils of steam uncurled from it, then looked up at her beaming face.

"What?" he said. She blushed.

"_Caffèllatte_," she said, her blush deepening when he continued to give her the same suspicious, apprehensive look. "I just—well, a new coffee shop opened near the Uffizi, and I heard that their _caffèllatte_ was really good—I'm a university student, after all—and I had some money leftover and didn't want to carry around a lot of change… And… well…" She paused, flustered, as his expression remained exactly the same. "It must be cold, sitting out here all day, and some coffee always helps, right?" She laughed nervously.

He raised an eyebrow. "How do I know you didn't do anything to it? For all I know, you could be a Blackshirt out to kill me. That could be a hot cup of castor oil you're holding."

Her mouth dropped open as an indignant look came over her face. "Why in the _world_ would I want to kill you? And the Blackshirts are all men, anyway!"

He frowned. "There's always one. And besides—I'm Chinese. Communist, to most people's eyes. And everyone knows that Fascists don't get along with Communists."

She laughed. "So what, then? Are you a Fascist, or a Communist, or what?"

His frown deepened. "See, you _do_ want to know. You're out to kill me—I know it."

She grinned and said sarcastically, with a mock air of knowledge, "_Ne me frego._ I don't really care. You are who you are." She held out her hand again, this time closer to his face. "You want it or not? It's starting to get cold."

He rolled his eyes and took the cup from her hand. He peered at its surface, which was covered with a light layer of foam; in the foam, drawn with thin, light-brown lines, was a delicate, swirly design, one that reminded him of leaves and feathers. He brought the cup closer to him and took in a deep breath, inhaling the distinct aroma of coffee and milk. He almost immediately already felt warmer. He brought the cups to his lips, then hesitated.

"I've never had coffee before," he said after a pause. Her mouth dropped open.

"_How_? The first coffee shop in Europe was opened in Venice, you know! You're telling me that you've lived here long enough to get a good grasp of the language—a really good grasp—and you've never had coffee?" She paused to take a sip of her coffee, then licked her lips to get off the droplets of foam. "Well, there's a first time for everything, right?"

He sighed, then took a sip, savoring the feel of the foam over his tongue. It had a rich taste, almost too much; all the tea that his uncle ever brewed for him had a lighter, crisper taste, and one that was much more bitter. This just tasted like cream and sugar and all things Italian, mixed with milk. He paused and licked his lips, then took another sip. As an afterthought… It wasn't exactly _bad_, just unusual. And, he had to admit, it _did_ do a good job of warming him up.

"So?" she said, sipping at her half-empty cup. "Do you like it?"

He took another sip and let the rich, creamy taste run past his tongue and into his stomach, leaving in its wake a warm, glowing heat that spread to all of his body. "It's all right."

She laughed. "You'll get used to it. But it's really good, huh? It took me _so_ long to get these two cups—today's cold, obviously, and the shop's short on workers, since it's still new and everything. The line was really long; it's a wonder that I didn't have to wait longer." A pink flush still lingered on her cheeks. He set down his cup, which was still almost three-quarters full. He straightened his display of paintings for a few moments, then looked back up at her.

"Why are you still here?"

She scoffed. "Well, you're welcome," she said, then crumpled up her empty cup and crossed her arms.

He rolled his eyes. "Thank you for the coffee. But if you have nothing better to do, then I'd suggest you get out of the way. You're blocking the view of my paintings. I could be losing potential customers because of you."

She sighed and stepped around the paintings, then squatted down beside him and faced the people walking on the street. "Is this any better?" she said. He ran a numb hand through his hair and sighed.

"Only very slightly."

She tossed her crumpled up cup at his face, and he gave a start, catching the cup before it fell into his lap. She had a deep frown on her face, her eyebrows drawn together and her eyes narrowed. "Look, what's your problem? I spent my time and money getting you some coffee, I try to be nice to you, and you don't care at all." Her face reddened. He raised his eyebrows.

"I didn't ask you to, you know."

A disbelieving look crossed her face and she stood, crossing her arms. "Do you think you're so hot, just because you're a fantastic artist? Yes, artists have a reputation for being eccentric and being hard to get along with—even if he was brilliant, Van Gogh was still weird and eccentric and hard to understand—but you…" She paused, then growled, frustrated, the words stuck in her throat. "Yeah, whatever. Have fun selling your paintings—or trying to. And when it gets really cold and you want something to drink, your coffee's going to be cold, and I'm not coming back with another cup." With that, she turned on her heel and walked off, mingling back into the crowd and disappearing.

He sat still for a moment, confusion and shock washing over him, then sighed and leaned over, propping his head up in his hand, his elbow on his thigh.

"And I thought I'd never meet a girl as moody or tempermental as Azula…" he muttered. He picked up his cup and took a sip, but the coffee was already cold.

* * *

The first thing that struck him about the café was the line of people waiting outside. It wasn't quite as long as he'd imagined it to be—she had made it sound as if the line were a mile long—but it was nonetheless still a substantial length. The next thing he noticed was the amount of people sitting outside in the cold, their cheeks flushed as they drank from delicate cups of steaming coffee. And the third thing he noticed as he walked past the sign that said "Now Hiring" was the fact that his coat was considerably more threadbare than that of many of the patrons. He frowned, then went to the table in the back corner, which was occupied by only one person. 

"Good afternoon," he said, then sat, stiffly straight. The manager interlaced his fingers and smiled.

"As you can see, we've been very busy lately," he began, "and I'm eager to hire some new employees. But that still doesn't mean that I'll hire just anybody—hence why you're here." His smile widened. "_Signor_ Kuang, was it?"

Zuko nodded. "I hope I can be of help," he said, attempting to block out the incessant sound of cups _clink_ing against saucers, of spoons ringing against the rims of glass, of low murmuring and currents of laughter.

"We'll see," said the manager before he took a deep breath and continued. "All right—so, have you had any previous experience working in a coffee shop or a similar place?"

Zuko hesitated, then attempted to gather up some courage and mask his uncertainty. "Well, my uncle used to own a tea shop, and I would often help him out and help him serve the customers. At times, it got quite busy, but I was still able to handle the crowd—it was just me and my uncle working, too, so…"

* * *

Three days later, Zuko found himself in a neat, crisp shirt, and black, ironed pants, working behind a highly polished marble counter and knowing more about coffee than he ever wanted or needed to know. Admittedly, the wages could have been better, but he got more per week than what he received from the erratic sales of his paintings. 

"One cappuccino!"

Zuko bustled around, pouring specific amounts of coffee and milk into a small cup before sprinkling on it a dash of cocoa powder. He slid the cup over to the cashier, then quickly finished the other orders lined up in his mind. A few days ago, he wouldn't have known the difference between mocha and café au lait, nor would he have known the difference between the various syrups lined up against the wall.

He frowned. It wasn't exactly the most exciting job, either, but he took solace in making quick designs on the almost endless stream of latte drinks. It hadn't been too difficult for him to learn how to manipulate the milk, nor how to use the powders, and it took him only a few seconds to make a quick but nonetheless pretty design. He rushed around, pouring coffee from various different taps into cups of different sizes and shapes. Mocha went in this kind of cup and iced coffee in this kind…

"One _caffèllatte_!"

Zuko poured a cup of coffee, then added steamed milk to it, taking care to pour the milk on in a gentle, freeform way. It seemed to him that his designs never truly came out the way he wanted them to, though—the other designs he had seen were full and wide, like the leaves of a fern, but his always seemed to come out slightly narrower. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

He carried the coffee over to the counter, then froze. Looking back at him with an equally disbelieving expression was Katara, her mouth half-open. A couple seconds passed before the cashier placed her change on the counter, and she broke the gaze, taking the change and putting it in her wallet. She took the cup from the cashier, smiled, and thanked him, then quickly turned around and walked off, not glancing a single time behind her.

As he watched her walk toward an empty seat, her hips swaying ever so slightly and her brown hair glimmering in the dim light of the room, it hit him what his _caffèllatte_ designs always resembled—a single, long braid.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

**Trivia:**  
• _Ne me frego_ is the Fascist motto, often translated as "I don't give a damn," though best rendered as "I couldn't give a fuck."  
• The Blackshirts were Mussolini's secret police group, and, as a weapon of mass terror, they did in fact force-feed people castor oil.  
• "_Caffèlatte_" is the Italian term for a latte, literally meaning "coffee and milk". If you try to order _latte_ at an Italian coffee shop, you're likely to get just a glass of milk. P:  
• Paper cups were invented in the 1920s. Prior to their invention, people had used shared, public cups, a practice that raised many health concerns, which disposable cups solved.  
• The first coffee shop in Europe was indeed opened in Venice in the 1600s. As Venice had a long tradition of trade with the Muslims, who first began to drink coffee, it's no surprise that coffee first came to Europe from there. 

I'm just like Zuko here—I've really never had coffee before P: So I have no clue what a latte tastes like, or anything like that. I much prefer tea. So if my descriptions are inaccurate, that's why.

Anyways, thanks for all your support and great reviews, guys! It's a great feeling, knowing that people like your work and what you're doing. XD


	3. A Reel Adventure

**Chiaroscuro**  
. helium lost .

**Author's Notes:** This took me far too long to finish. :'D So so sorry for the wait, everyone!

* * *

**CHAPTER III**  
_A Reel Adventure_

* * *

Working at the coffee shop had its downsides—being eternally busy, for one, especially now that the weather was really getting chilly; always getting a slightly betrayed look from Uncle every time he came home; being eternally slave to people who just popped in and out for a drink, rarely ever saying "please" or "thank you". (And that was just the tip of the iceberg.) But, on the other hand, it did have its perks: he now had a steady wage (even though it was rather low), and he had a bit extra for pocket money and wasn't quite so pressed to scrape by the rent for every month.

And that meant—_movies._

It wasn't so much that he was a big fan of movies as it was a way for him to pass time and to find some art and order in this chaotic life. Being Chinese, he never really identified with the "Italian pride" that the movies all glorified, but he could at least understand what the government was trying to do—boost up the ego of its people so that they'd be more confident in this tense time and whatnot. Of course, he _was_ grateful that he was in Italy—people said that movies in Germany and the Soviet Union were censored, of course, but _Il Duce_ Mussolini had a bit more appreciation for the arts and let movies go by, for the most part, uncensored.

(Not that there was, really, anything _to_ censor in the movies… Everything that came in these days was propaganda, sometimes subtle, sometimes blatant.)

As the credits began to roll, Zuko got up and made a move to leave. He fumbled his way around in the dark, cursing as his foot caught on the edge of one of the seats. As he tumbled forward, he flailed his hands around, trying to grab whatever was nearest to him so that he wouldn't fall flat on his face—and his left hand closed itself around a soft lump of flesh, round and with a decidedly _feminine_ quality.

He let go quickly, as soon as he regained his balance, and bowed deeply and stiffly, his face glowing red. He said the first thing that came to mind:

"_S-Sumimasen!_"

"…What the hell are you doing speaking Japanese? I thought you were Chinese!"

If it were possible, he froze even more. He was afraid to straighten up out of the bow for fear of the face that he _knew_ that he would see. _Of all the movie theaters… _he began to think, but was interrupted by her voice.

"Well?"

He straightened up, carefully avoiding looking into her eyes. "Erm, I _am_ Chinese, yes."

"Then…?"

The theater began to light up again as the lights above and around them flickered slowly to life. It was getting more and more difficult to ignore her, and he focused instead on staring intently at her brown boots, which were tapping impatiently on the floor.

"It's a Chinese thing," he said after a moment's pause. "You make a fool out of yourself—you pretend to be Japanese. It's a natural reaction. Because, well, the Japanese are bastards."

A faint glimmer of a smile passed over her face, and he dared to look at her. Her hair was still brushed back into that elegant bun and braid, the stray strands still framing her face. Her sharp blue eyes were glaring at him, narrowed into venomous slits that all-too-uncomfortably reminded him of a poisonous snake poised to strike. Her arms were crossed over her chest, which he made sure to avoid even glancing at.

A moment's worth of awkward silence passed between them before it was broken by the sharp _crack_ of her palm colliding with his unscarred cheek. He stared at her in shock before he reached a trembling hand up to his throbbing flesh. Before he could even begin to mouth the word '_wha—?_', she had already turned her back and begun walking away from him. Zuko ignored the stares of the few other people who were in the theater before he lowered his hand, clenched his fists, then decidedly began pursuing her. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder; she quickly shrugged off his hand and whirled around to face him, her finger poised and her mouth open, ready to shout, but he neatly cut in before she could say a word.

"What was _that_ for? Do you _always_ go around slapping people like that?"

She shut her mouth, and he could almost see the steam rising up out of her ears. Then, she retorted, "Oh yeah? Do you _always_ go around grabbing girls' breasts, then pretending to be an innocent Japanese foreigner to get away with it? Huh? You think it's _cute_ or something?" She whirled around, slapping him again with her braid. "Well, it's not." She glanced back at him, then muttered, "Pervert."

She took a step, then gave a start when she looked up and realized that he was before her again. "Look," he said, his temper rising, "it was an _accident_. Sorry. _Sorry_. There, I said it. And I'm _not_ a pervert, damn you!"

She turned her back to him. "Nope. Not good enough. You didn't thank me for the coffee—"

"_That was two weeks ago!_"

"It's the thought that counts, Zuko. _Then_, you grab my breast—"

"It was an accident!"

"—and try to play it off like you were some innocent little boy. _Moreover_," she said, raising her voice over his protests, "you tried to blame it on _another group of innocent people_."

"_Innocent_?" he roared, garnering the startled looks of the few people who were exiting the theater. Even Katara turned, surprised. "_Innocent_? The Japanese can hardly be considered _innocent_, for your information. I'll have you know—"

Katara quickly muffled him by putting a hand over his mouth, smiling sheepishly at the inquisitive people around them, then dragged Zuko out of the theater and into the open air, muttering under her breath as Zuko resisted against her. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, then turned to face him.

"Are you trying to get us in trouble? Huh? Trying to get the police on us?"

She glared at him, and he opened and closed his mouth wordlessly a few times before sputtering, "_What?_"

She shivered as an especially chilly breeze blew. "Look, I'm not saying that the Japanese are innocent people, but like hell the Chinese are innocent. And, look—Japan's been getting friendly with Italy and Germany lately; do you _really_ think it's a smart idea to go spouting off against them _in public_?"

He clamped his mouth shut, then turned his head to the side and muttered, "I guess not."

"And I won't pretend or anything—I'll have you know that I'm still kind of hurt that you were being a bit of a general _jerk_ to me. I don't claim to know you and, since I'm not taking psychology or anything, I can't even _pretend_ to know you—but the least you could do is give me a well-meaning apology, no?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or is chivalry really dead?"

Zuko frowned, then opened his mouth and took a breath. He paused, then began to say something, only to have the word catch itself in his throat. Under her sharp glare, he cleared his throat, then pulled out his wallet.

"Oh no, mister. Don't even _think_ about bribing me."

He looked up, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, who said I was going to bribe you?"

She rolled her eyes as he opened his wallet and took out from it a slightly bent, somewhat wrinkled sheet of paper. He held it between them.

"It's a coupon," he said. "Good for one free drink at the coffee shop." He raised his eyebrow. "Join me?"

Katara raised a single eyebrow, and Zuko braced himself, readying for the outburst that he knew was coming. Instead, Katara rested a palm on her forehead, then burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Stunned, Zuko stood before her, watching her laugh until the tears came to her eyes; she clutched her sides before taking a few unsteady steps. Laughter rang in the cold air, and Zuko carefully averted his gaze from the passersby that were looking inquisitively in his direction.

"_What_ is so funny?" he finally said as Katara's laughter began to fade away into little hiccups.

"Well," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes, "most guys, you know, would _treat_ the girl to a drink. Like, pay for it himself. And you have this little… _coupon_ thing," she said, waving her hand in his direction. "Are you just trying to be cute, or are you _really_ this clueless?"

Zuko stiffened. "I'm _not_ clueless."

She raised an eyebrow, then took the coupon from his hand. "Not clueless, huh?"

"…Well, maybe a little bit."

She smiled, then tilted her head as she looked at him. "You're an odd guy, you know that?"

He furrowed his brow. "Is that a good or a bad thing?"

She shrugged. "I'm still deciding." She looked at the coupon in her hand and smirked. "Well, I'm not busy right now," she said, looking back up at him. "And it _is_ kind of cold. Shall we go?"

"What, now?" Zuko said, then, seeing the disbelieving look on her face, said, "All right. Let's go."

She shrugged her shoulders as she walked beside him on the narrow sidewalk, the cars bouncing past them over the cobblestone streets. "Not _that_ clueless, then," she said, sneaking a furtive glance up at him and attempting to mask her smile.

Zuko chose not to respond.

* * *

"The Fountain of Neptune," she said, gesturing vaguely in its direction as she looked at him over the brim of her coffee cup. "What do you think of it?"

He sipped at his cup of tea. "It's nice."

She rolled her eyes. "That's all you can say about it? It's been through so much, you know."

He shrugged. "I don't. Know about what it's gone through, I mean."

"Well," she said as she sipped her coffee, "pretty much everyone hated it when it was finished. It was supposed to be a really noble statue, you know—Neptune towering over the water, kind of like the Florentines and their grasp and conquer of the seas." She paused, blowing on her coffee a bit before she took another sip. "I don't think many people got that, though. Everyone just called it _Il Biancone_—the white giant. Even Michelangelo told Ammannati that all he did was ruin a perfectly good piece of marble."

"How sad," Zuko murmured, Katara's words going in one ear and going out the other. He focused instead on watching her lips move. They were nicely shaped, he decided; perfectly in proportion with each other and with the rest of her face. Almost the archetypical pouty look donned by all the statues in the plaza.

"Yeah, I know, right? And then it was vandalized repeatedly." She took in a long sip of her coffee. "Which is really sad; I think it's a lovely piece of art. Really adds a certain power and accent to the plaza." She drained the rest of her coffee and set the cup back down on its saucer. "And you? How are you doing with your work?"

He gave her a pensive stare, then said, "Actually, I haven't been painting much recently."

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh? Why not?"

He shrugged. "Working here for most of the day drains me quite a bit. It's mind-numbing and tiring; I generally don't have much time to paint once I get home. Plus, this job gives me a much steadier income than selling my paintings on the street; no one really cares for them." He shrugged. "Might as well wait until spring or summer, when there are more tourists. They usually care for these picturesque, quaint little pictures, and they're willing to part with an extra handful of lire."

She frowned. "What a waste! And what about your other paintings, the ones that you didn't manage to sell?"

"All in a stack in the corner of my room," he said, shrugging again. Her jaw dropped.

"Just lying there, in a stack?" He nodded. "_Ohh_, what a waste!"

"Yeah, well, I can't really do anything about it," he replied. "I don't have more space on my walls to hang them up—not that they're my best work, anyway—and that's just the most convenient way for me to keep them. I try to sell them again for a couple months or so, and if no one wants them afterward, I just use them to cover books."

"To cover _books_?"

"Yeah, I like to keep my books in good condition, so I cover all of them. I used to cover them with just blank paper, but I figured that my unsold paintings are the perfect size for most books, so I just use them." He took another sip of tea. "Makes for an artsy cover, I think."

She sputtered, and he looked at her. "You just… Oh, I can't believe that you'd just let them go to _waste_ like that!"

"Yeah, what a waste; I get it already," he said, and she frowned.

"I really can't stand that, good work just being let _go_ like that." She looked around, biting her lip. The walls of the café were painted over in a warm brown color, trimmed with a creamy white color. Candles flickered on each table, illuminating the rich red mahogany of the tables. She rested her chin on her palm, looking at the walls; Zuko watched her idly, noticing the curve of her jaw. It wasn't too shallow, nor was it too deep; it was neither too angled nor too round. In fact, it was one of the perfect curves that he preferred whenever he was painting women. He etched the image of her profile into his mind, archiving it for future references.

Katara's eyes lit up so suddenly that Zuko almost jumped, startled.

"Hey, why not put your artwork _here_?" she said excitedly, and he raised his eyebrows. "No, listen—the walls are pretty bare, and I'm thinking that they could use some color and some decoration. What do you say? I'm sure the manager will give you a little compensation, right?"

He frowned. "How mortifying."

Katara frowned right back. "What do you mean _mortifying_? It's your work; you should show it off proudly. If I had even half your talent, I'd be flaunting it everywhere."

He tilted his head to the side and looked at her. "Really now."

She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. She looked at him deeply in the eyes, and he wanted to edge away from her intensely blue eyes, but they compelled him to stay where he was, to move not even a single muscle. His breathing became more shallow until he felt as if it had stopped completely; his heart beat against his ribs as the corners of her perfect mouth curved themselves upward to form a smile.

"Really."

He took in a deep breath, breaking the spell of her gaze, and managed a small smile himself.

"I'll talk to him about it."

* * *

**Trivia:**  
• Italy did actually have more creative freedom where movies were concerned, as opposed to Germany and the USSR. Mussolini sought just to control his people's outside thoughts and support and could, really, care less about what they thought when they were alone, hence why his censorship was less intense.  
• The "_sumimasen_" (which means "excuse me", by the way) and innocent Japanese bystander thing was inspired by my mom's Korean friend, who did that once as a sort of reflex, LOL. I won't go into the details of the embarrassing situation that she was caught in, but she immediately pretended to be Japanese, and, really, for the reasons stated. The Chinese and the Koreans (at least, my parents' generation and earlier) tend to harbor a grudge against the Japanese for all that they've done to them (which was, believe me, a lot). And it's not helped by the fact that the Japanese, as far as I know, haven't really issued a formal apology to either of them.  
• The stuff about the Fountain of Neptune is all true. Check Wikipedia if you don't believe me. XD

**Author's Notes:** Well, their relationship definitely took off in a different direction than what I had intended it to be, LOL. Err, hopefully they're not _too_ out-of-character… Feel free to tell me so if they are, though; I always need more help and experience writing Katara and Zuko XD Especially making Zuko less of a Mr. Angry-Head and more human.

As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated, particularly constructive criticism. :) This'll go somewhere and have a more concrete plot in the next chapter, I swear, LOL.

_4/19/2007_


End file.
